


Out of the Mouths of Babes: Babe on the Run

by mirajanihiggins



Series: Out of the Mouths of Babes [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angelo is a johnlocker, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, Rosie the matchmaker, Some Humor, Supportive Sherlock, angry Rosie, arguments and a fight, bathtime again, deep-seated fears, missing Rosie!, no smut sorry, romantic dinner, warning: past abuse/sexual abuse John Watson (mention)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 22:39:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14223330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: Several days pass and still no date. Can Rosie bring her two daddies together?





	Out of the Mouths of Babes: Babe on the Run

The water splashed softly against the sides of the old high-sided tub in the 221B bathroom. A sulky face peered up from the water’s surface, bright blue eyes flashing in barely-suppressed anger.

 

“Papa, why are you giving me a bath tonight?” she asked, her words slurring a little as tiny waves on the surface of the water sloshed against her lips. Her full pout was submerged in bubbles.

 

Sherlock smiled down at her indulgently. His shirtsleeves were cranked up over his elbows and his silk neckline was speckled with large wet dots. Rosie liked to splash.

 

“I always give you a bath on the days your daddy works late,” he countered, smoothly, as he picked up the rubber duck and squirted her with it playfully. She squealed in protest.

 

“No fair!” she yelped.

 

Sherlock smirked. “My shirt argues otherwise.” He gave her another squirt before releasing his weapon into the suds. “Now, why are you so peeved this evening, Ros...”

 

She cleared her throat menacingly. “Fleur,” she sputtered, flatly.

 

“Ah, yes, of course. My apologies, _Fleur_ ,” he acceded, nodding to her as if she were a royal princess which, in his mind, she was. She was John’s daughter and, therefore, the most important thing in his world, next, of course, to John.

 

“I’m _peeved_ ,” she said, carefully enunciating the new word, “because Daddy isn’t here _again_. He hasn’t been here _all week_.” She picked up a floaty toy and lobbed it out of the tub. It hit the wall with an aborted squeak and fell behind the toilet. One of Sherlock’s eyebrows rose in response.

 

“I do _not_ condone such displays of aggression during bath time, you _know_ that, Fleur,” he reminded her sternly.

 

The pout became near-nuclear. “I don’t care.”

 

“Hmph,” Sherlock responded. “So you are angry that I’m bathing you again? It never bothered you before...”

 

“NO!” she all-but-shouted. “I’m angry that Daddy broke your date and hasn’t come home in time to take you out and I wanna know _why_!” She slammed her open hand down into the bubbles, sending up a geyser of soapy water that cascaded down on them both.

 

“So would I,” Sherlock murmured, more to himself than to his charge before raising a finger in warning. “No splashing, unless _you_ want to be the one to clean it up.”

 

Rosie settled back into the foam. Her eyes were still intense. “It’s not fair.”

 

Sherlock nodded solemnly. “I agree, but your daddy’s practice has been very busy lately...”

 

Rosie cut him off. “I overheard him telling Mrs. Hudson the other day that he’s been so bored at work that he’s been taking long lunches and walks in the park,” she stated, crossing her arms in vexation. “He doesn’t _want_ to come home.”

 

Rocking back on his heels, Sherlock stared down at his small informant in surprise. John had been telling him about how busy his practice has been lately that he couldn’t get away. _Liar_.

 

“Did you hear anything else, Fleur?” he asked, his voice mild but his mind racing.

 

She nodded emphatically. “Yes, he said he gotten himself in a pickle and he doesn’t know what to do about it.”

 

Both of Sherlock’s eyebrows skyrocketed. “A ‘pickle’, you say.” Rosie nodded. “Was there anything else?”

 

She dropped her arms and moved to the side of the tub, almost nose-to-nose with Sherlock. She whispered, “He said he was going to stall for a while and hope it all blew over.” Her head cocked curiously. “What does ‘stall’ mean? Isn’t that where they keep horses?”

 

Sherlock gusted a sigh through his nose. “Yes, but it also means ‘to put off’ something you don’t want to do.” His eyes closed in sudden realization. “Fleur, I don’t think your daddy wants to go on a date with me,” he finally admitted. “This is just the kind of thing he would do to avoid it.”

 

When he opened his eyes, Fleur’s face was a study in horror. “Papa! How could daddy not want to...”

 

A long, slender finger came to rest gently against Rosie’s cupid-bow lips as he shushed her. “Fleur, your daddy has demons...”

 

Her head cocked to the side again, eyes wide. Sherlock reiterated. “Your daddy has issues that have been inside him since he was your age. It seems that _his_ daddy didn’t like that _your_ daddy might like boys...”

 

“Like you,” she stated with the simplicity of a child.

 

Sherlock smiled warmly. “Yes, like me. Is daddy...was very strict and tried to make sure your daddy only liked ladies.”

 

Rosie’s eyes were suddenly tragic. “Did his daddy hurt him?”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes before answering. “Yes, Fleur, I believe he did. I have never asked him. It’s… too sensitive a subject, even now.”

 

“Poor Daddy,” Rosie whispered as her eyes welled up with tears. Sherlock grabbed a tissue and daubed them away.

 

“There, there, now, ma petite, it is all in the past, but sometimes, things from the past are very difficult to overcome because they are so deep inside us.”

 

Her eyes flew open in sudden realization. “Did people hurt you, too? Because you like boys?”

 

 _Damn! Smart one._ “I was abused more for being _intelligent_ and being able to see things that other people can’t. But, yes, I was also made fun of and...hurt for liking boys. A lot of people don’t like that,”

he finished, lamely. _What can you say to a child who has known nothing but love and acceptance all of her short life about the pain that awaits her in the wider world?_

 

A small, tender hand touched his face. His eyes opened. Rose whispered, “I’m sorry, Papa. I wish I could punish those bad people who hurt you.”

 

Sherlock took her hand from his cheek and kissed it. “Ah, no, mia dolce, two wrongs don’t make a right. You just live your best life and things tend to take care of themselves.”

 

She grinned suddenly, like the flash of a laser. “As long as you and Daddy are around to help, right? That’s what Daddy always says.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the tip of his nose.

 

Overcome with affection, Sherlock leaned over the tub and gave Rosie the biggest hug he could manage. She whispered, “I love you, Papa,” in his ear and, his heart swelled.

 

“I love you, too, sweetie,” he replied with uncharacteristic emotion. She giggled as they separated.

 

“Now, are you done with soaking me through to the skin, Fleur?” he teased.

 

She nodded very deliberately. “Yes, I am.”

 

Sherlock smirked affectionately as he reached for the plush towel sitting on the top of the toilet. _Only the best for my Rosie._

 

“I’m home!” a familiar voice rang through the kitchen. Sherlock’s smile dropped. Rosie noticed.

 

“It’s okay, Papa. I still love you,” she said, softly, before becoming angry again, “even if Daddy is acting like a skunk.”

 

A huff of laughter escaped Sherlock as he wrapped the child in her fluffy towel. She snuggled into it and sighed. “This is sooo soft and warm!” she purred.

 

John appeared at the doorway. “Well, hello, there! Didn’t anyone hear me call?”

 

Sherlock didn’t even bother to turn around. He caught Rosie’s expression as she pursed her lips in annoyance at her father.

 

Before he could say anything, Rosie stated, in a flat, hostile tone, “You’re late.”

 

_Oh, shit. Hell hath no fury like a Rosie scorned._

 

John rubbed the back of his head awkwardly. “Well, you know, those last minute walk-ins...”

 

“Can really mess up those long walks in the park, can’t they, John?” Sherlock asked, without turning. Rosie glared over his shoulder. John looked...uncomfortable.

 

“What?” he managed to squeak out.

 

“A source has informed me that your practice is dwindling but you haven’t seen fit to tell me. You take long walks and, knowing you, longer lunches to pass the time,” Sherlock explained, without heat.

 

“Fibber!” Rosie declared.

 

“Rosie!” John was appalled. “I have _never_ lied to you...”

 

“No, just to _Papa_!” she yelled, stamping her foot on the bathroom rug. Her little hands were balled up into fists at her sides. “That’s. Not. _Right_!”

 

Eyes lowered, Sherlock turned slowly in his crouched position to look at John, who was obviously gobsmacked by his child’s accusation. When their eyes finally met, John promptly looked away.

 

“We’ll discuss this once I have Rosie dressed and in bed,” Sherlock said.

 

“No, we _won’t_.” John huffed as he turned and walked back through the kitchen and up the stairs to his own bedroom. Sherlock could hear movement overhead as John prepared Rosie’s bed, followed by the obvious sound of something being either kicked or punched.

 

Sherlock looked at Rosie, whose eyes were turned skyward. “Daddy’s having a temper tantrum again.” She clucked her tongue in disapproval. “How childish.”

 

Sherlock hung his head to hid his secret laughter. “Pink or blue, Fleur?”

 

She affected a thinking pose, both hands steepled at her chin. “The blue, I think, Papa.”

 

He nodded. “The blue it is, then, milady,” he replied as, with a flourish, he whipped her blue nightie off the toilet lid and helped her dress herself in it. “I always like this one on you. It goes well with your eyes.”

 

She smiled impishly at him. _That’s Mary’s smile._ His shoulders drooped just a bit.

 

“Papa?” A small hand was laid upon his shoulder in inquiry.

 

 _Steady on, Sherlock._ “Hmm? Oh, I’m fine, mia dulce,” he said. “Just a passing thought.” He stood and leaned over, effortlessly picking up the child and setting her on his hip. “Time for bed.”

 

“If Daddy hasn’t trashed the room again,” she said, disapprovingly. She threw her arms around his neck and they mounted the stairs noisily to alert John to their presence. Once arrived at the door, however, Sherlock was met with a stony face and a stiff, military posture, with arms that demanded his child back. Sherlock bobbed his head in acknowledgement and turned her over. The Great Stone Face then backed up through the door and slammed it in Sherlock’s face.

 

“Daddy, that was rude!” a muffled voice came through the door. Sherlock sighed, turned, and descended the stairs without obvious emotion. Inside, however, he was _seething_.

 

It took about half an hour before John returned downstairs, walking directly to the kitchen table where he had deposited a bag full of Indian food in take-away boxes. Sherlock said nothing, but his iron eyes followed John’s every move from his chair in the parlor

 

Finally, John spoke up. “Have you eaten yet?” he asked, blandly.

 

Sherlock worked his lips in and out before replying. “You know damned well I don’t eat until you come back. What are these, the leftovers from your lengthy lunch?”

 

John stopped moving. His mouth twisted in that way he had before delivering a particularly scathing comeback. Sherlock prepared himself. Instead, John extended his chin in a familiar way and said, “No, this is all freshly-prepared. I even brought you the tikka masala you like.”

 

Sherlock snorted quietly before responding, icily, “Thank you.” Yet, he didn’t move. He just sat and stared, his face unreadable. John didn’t meet his eyes. Instead, he sat down at the table and began opening containers.

 

Finally, Sherlock unfolded his long limbs from his low chair and, walking quietly over to the twin doors into the hallway, closed them both with a barely-audible >click<. John paused for a second or two, his eyes shifting to where he knew Sherlock must be standing without quite making it there. Then he resumed dishing out food onto two plates.

 

Sherlock loomed up behind him with barely a sound. His downward gaze at the top of John’s head dripped acid. “It would have been nice if you had told me.”

 

John’s head barely turned in acknowledgement but his eyes did not seek out Sherlock’s face. “What, that I was going to be late?”

 

“That you didn’t want to date me,” Sherlock said, his normally-pleasant baritone bearing the sharp edge of a samurai sword. “You didn’t have to lie.”

 

“I never lied to you,” John replied, still chewing on a mouthful of vegetables. “I never said...”

 

“You told Mrs. Hudson about your ‘pickle’. What ‘pickle’ was that, exactly, John?” Sherlock asked as he moved to a position beside John, placing one hand on the table and the other on the back of John’s chair. His face hovered near John’s. John had stopped chewing. “Dill, gherkin, bread-and-butter…?”

 

“DAMN IT!” John exploded out of his chair, practically hitting Sherlock on the way up. “I came back here, with dinner, hoping for a nice quiet evening...”

 

“With everything in the status quo! It’s fine if I take care of your daughter while you work and go out with your friends and with women, but God forbid I should ever want anything for myself!” Sherlock yelled, his face turning pink in anger. “If you didn’t want anything with me, then you shouldn’t have offered!”

 

“It was hard _not_ to after Rosie…!” John sputtered in rage.

 

“DON’T BLAME YOUR DAUGHTER! Her presence here is the highlight of my days, unlike _you_ , who treats me like the babysitter who came with the building!” Sherlock’s neck veins were popping out. “Do you know how galling it is to watch _you_ , Mr. “I’m not actually gay!”, go out with women, knowing that you could choose _another_ woman to marry and take Rosie away from me? I love you both, you’re my _family_...”

 

“YOU DON’T FUCK FAMILY!” John yelled back, seemingly out of nowhere, his face so distorted that it was hard to recognized him as the same man who fussed over Rosie at night. “You don’t...fucking... _do_ that!”

 

Sherlock’s eyebrows congressed. “What? What are you…?” A light suddenly went off behind his eyes.

“Oh, my God... _John_...”

 

“Some fucking detective _you_ are,” John snapped, dismissively, his eyes dropping. “Didn’t even _think_ about that, _did_ you?”

 

Sherlock backed up a step, eyeing John speculatively. “You had said that you’d been abused by your father. You never elaborated. You gave me no data to pull from. I can’t read your mind, John. I’m a scientist, not a psychic,” he said, calmly enough, even though he could feel his guts roiling.

 

John turned away. He couldn’t meet those steel gray eyes that could see right through him most of the time but couldn’t see the kind of hurt that lay deep below the pleasant manner and iron resolve of one John H. Watson. _How can I tell him this?_

 

“The PTSD pre-dated your stint in the army,” Sherlock observed, his voice soft but his meaning clear. “You were abused in your own home by your father...”

 

“And my mother did nothing about it,” John admitted bitterly, his jaw tight, one hand balled up into a fist. “She blamed him for my sister being a lesbian because, after she came out, he had...” His eyes squeezed shut, as if he didn’t want to see the image in his mind. “He forced himself on her over a number of years, claiming he was ‘teaching her that sex with men was better than with women’. It was... _disgusting_. I tried to intervene one time; he broke my arm for my troubles. She left soon after, went to live with friends. That’s where she met her now-former wife, Clara.”

 

Taking a step back toward him, Sherlock laid a gentle hand on John’s shoulder, non-threatening and supportive. “Go on,” he said, his voice soft as a kitten’s purr.

 

John swallowed with difficulty as he continued, “They called the Child Protective Services in to evaluate our home. Dad lied, Mum said nothing, and I was threatened with physical violence if I told. They said that, without physical evidence, they couldn’t do anything.” His voice caught. “Even my broken arm was written off as a sports accident. They _left_ me there. My sister had escaped, but I couldn’t. I was too young.”

 

He finally lifted his eyes up to meet Sherlock’s. “It got worse from there, Sherlock. My father...he turned his attentions to me.”

 

Sherlock’s face registered horror. “Oh, John...”

 

“He said that he could ‘beat the gay out of me’, but he also took advantage of me, just like he had with my sister. _That_ was more about power than sex, though. It was meant to break my spirit, make me more pliable to his will.” He closed his eyes in pain again. “He said I’d never look at another man with lust again.”

 

“Your mother knew?” Sherlock asked, his voice breathy.

 

John his eyes opened and he nodded, his gaze distant. “Yep. She, at the very least, suspected, but she did nothing. She was as scared of him as I was.”

 

Sherlock slid his arm around John’s shoulders, still maintaining a non-threatening space between their bodies. John’s eyes were a dead, dull blue as he continued his story.

 

“Finally, I asked to go to military school. Dad was thrilled. He thought he had “made a man” out of me, at long last. The day I packed up and left was the happiest day of my life, up to that point.” A deep breath helped him to re-establish his preternatural calm. “It was only years later that I found out what a bastard my father had been in the army. Rapist, brawler, abuser, all-around bell end. He was dishonorably discharged for his actions, even though he always told us that he left the service with honors.” He blinked as they sought out Sherlock’s. “Can you imagine what that was like, Sherlock? _Can_ you?”

 

Sherlock, slowly and without breaking eye contact, slid his other arm around John’s shoulders and stepped in, again, without any threatening contact of bodies. John allowed it. Shaking his head, Sherlock said, “No. I can’t imagine it. I had my own private hell, but yours...” He took a chance and kissed John chastely on the forehead, “no, that...that is _beyond_ imagining. I’m so sorry, John. I wish you had told me before now.”

 

Breaking eye contact, John nodded and stepped away, out of the circle of Sherlock’s comforting arms. He sat back down at the table and attempted to eat something, but the lump in his throat was too big to swallow. Sherlock sighed through his nose and moved around to the other side of the table. He tried to find something to say, but couldn’t, choosing, instead, to sit down and accept one of the plated John had dished out for him. They ate together in silence or more precisely, picked at their plates in silence. There was no real eating done. The food was quite cold by then.

 

After a while, there was a tentative knock on the door. John called out “come in!” and Mrs. Hudson peeped through the opening, bearing a tray of cookies and milk.

 

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock asked, still somewhat in shock from the recent discussion with John. John half-turned to regard her.

 

“Where’s Rosie? Is she with you?” she asked. “I brought her some milk and cookies but she isn’t in her bed.” She hefted the plate as she spoke.

 

John and Sherlock exchanged alarmed glances as they scampered around the flat, then around the entire building, searching for any spot that might be accessible to a small child. They found nothing.

 

“Oh, God, Rosie,” John moaned in panic. “My little girl...”

 

“We’ll find her, John,” Sherlock assured him. “We just have to think like a child...”

 

“Easy for you to do. You’re the biggest fucking child I know,” John shot back angrily, stinging Sherlock.

 

“That was uncalled-for, John,” Sherlock growled. “At last observation, _I_ wasn’t the one running away from my past by incessantly dating and staying at work until all hours...”

 

“SHUT. UP!” John growled back. “I don’t need any criticism from _you_...”

 

“How do you know you didn’t leave the front door open so that she could just walk out?” Sherlock challenged him angrily. “Did you latch the child gate at the top of the stairs? _Both_ of them?” He paused before saying, “What kind of a father are you, anyway?”

 

John spun, almost faster than could be followed, and punched Sherlock square in the face, right below his eye, causing him to reel backward and trip over a chair. Then John was on him, grabbing his collar and slamming his head against the carpeted floor…

 

“JOHN! STOP THAT!” Mrs. Hudson yelled in alarm. “NOW!”

 

John acted as though he had heard nothing until a bullet whizzed over his head and embedded itself in the floor. Predator and prey both looked up, astonished, as Mrs. Hudson gestured, two-handedly, with John’s pistol.

 

“Get up, both of you!” she commanded in her incongruously bird-like voice, and they did. John even helped Sherlock regain his feet.

 

John was agape. Sherlock simply pressed his lips together, nodded, and said, “This looks vaguely familiar.”

 

“Now _both_ of you, you need to be looking for that darling little girl, not beating the pants off of each other,” she chided. As she lowered the weapon, she said, “Now, get out there and find her! I’ll keep looking around here!?” When they hesitated, she shouted, “GO!”

 

They went. But not until after John had cleaned and bandaged the cut on Sherlock’s face and checked him out for a concussion. Sherlock glowered but didn’t protest. He was in too big a hurry to go find Rosie.

 

They shot out into the night, searching, searching for that one little blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl who meant so much to them both. They immediately contacted the local Network, who would be keeping their eyes peeled for the pyjama-clad child. They searched every alley in the area, every dumpster, every below-street-level entry for signs of the precocious girl…

 

> _BREE_! <

 

> _BREE_! <

 

Sherlock hauled out his phone and practically yelled, “ _ **What**_?” into the microphone. He stopped, listened, then said, “Say that again, please.”

 

John stopped in his tracks and returned to Sherlock’s side. “What? What is it? Is it about Rosie?” he persisted. Sherlock cut him off with a chop of his hand. John subsided.

 

“Yes. Yes, all right. We’ll be right there,” Sherlock said as he repocketed his phone. John grabbed his arm. The look on his face said everything.

 

“They’ve found Rosie,” Sherlock breathed. John slumped in relief before asking, “Where?”

 

Quicksilver eyes bore into slate blue ones as Sherlock solemnly pronounced, “Angelo’s”

 

John’s jaw dropped. “Angelo’s? But that’s...”

 

Sherlock nodded.

 

As the two set out toward the restaurant, John recovered himself enough to mutter, darkly, “If that little girl is all right, she’s grounded until she’s eighteen.”

 

Sherlock’s mien was both relieved and angry. “No,” he disagreed, through clenched teeth, “ _twenty-one,_ _at least_ _”_

 

As they approached the restaurant’s huge front window, they could see a small, light-haired child sitting in a booster seat waving at them. Angelo was standing behind her, waving as well. They broke into a run, dashing across a still-busy street, almost getting hit by cross traffic in the process. As they burst through the restaurant’s glass door, they found one Rosamund Mary Watson, aka Rosie, aka Fleur, sitting in a booster seat in the front bench seat of the eatery, a big grin on her face. In front of her sat a huge bowl of gelato that had just been delivered to her by the proprietor, Angelo. She grinned widely as she shoveled the frozen treat into her mouth.

 

“She told me you would be coming, so I saved you some food for you and, of course, your favorite seat,” Angelo said, grinning as well.

 

“Angelo, it’s late...” Sherlock started, but Angelo cut him off.

 

“Not at all! I still have some cleaning up to do in the back. You three can sit out here and eat. You have the place all to yourselves!” he gushed, winking at the little girl, who giggled, spilling gelato on her robe in the process.

 

“Thank you, Angelo,” Sherlock nodded. With one hand, he indicated that John should sit with his back to the window while Sherlock took the side wall seat. Rosie occupied the space in the corner, between them.

 

“I’ll be right back with your meals,” Angelo said, hurrying back into the kitchen.

 

“Thank you.”

 

As he hustled away, both John and Sherlock turned their attentions back to Rosie, whose face was becoming a chocolate-smeared mess.

 

“Rosie...” John began.

 

She tried to stick the spoon to her nose. “Fleur,” she corrected them as it slid off.

 

Sherlock sighed. “This is _not_ a game, Rosie.”

 

She gave him a warning look. Sherlock ignored it. “Why would you do this, Rosie? You scared your daddy and me half to death!”

 

John just glowered at the little girl, who ignored him.

 

Rosie fed herself some more creamy goodness before answering. “I wanted you and Daddy to have your date!” she replied, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

 

Sherlock’s eyes sought out John’s and the two of them stared at each other, then at Rosie, in disbelief.

 

“What?” John asked. “How...”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Ever the sharp tack, his John. “She has arranged the date for us that _you_ keep missing,” he clarified.

 

Rosie nodded. “Uh huh,” she verified, with the cockiness of youth. “Daddy was running away from you, Papa, so I had to help out.”

 

John’s jaw dropped. Sherlock said, “She does have a point, John.”

 

“Shut up,” John snapped back in annoyance. “Young lady, you could have been kidnapped, or hurt, or even killed out there by yourself!”

 

“That’s so silly, Daddy!” she replied, haughtily. “I saw Billy outside and I asked him to bring me here!” Some more gelato dripped onto her robe. She ignored it.

 

“I’m going to have to have a word with Billy later,” Sherlock growled.

 

“He’s nice. I told him why I had to come here, and he brought me right away!” she beamed.

 

“Everyone’s a god-damned cupid,” John sighed in resignation.

 

“John, _language_ ,” Sherlock warned him. John shrugged. “It’s true that, left up to you, we would not be here now.” He turned to Rosie. “I understand your intention, ma petite, but you are far too young to go flying about London on your own, do you understand?”

 

Rosie smacked her lips and nodded. “Yes, Papa.”

 

John sighed. “You’ve always had a great way with her,” he observed, ruefully. “I’m not so good at it.”

 

“Yes, you are, John,” Sherlock reassured him. “You’re just too hard on yourself.”

 

The meals came, each one receiving his favorite dish. It didn’t matter, of course. Sherlock always ate off of John’s plate so, in order to have enough nourishment, John had to eat off of Sherlock’s. Rosie giggled as they picked pieces off of both plates, sometimes mock-dueling with forks to do so. Before long, the atmosphere had lightened a bit as the two men interacted with the small child in their midst, and each other, until Rosie began to obviously sag, almost falling into her empty bowl of melty gelato.

 

“John, take the seat out,” Sherlock murmured as he took Rosie’s weight into his lap. John shifted the booster seat to his other side as Sherlock laid the sleepy little girl down in the corner of the bench, safe from falls. Both men touched knees under the table to create a fall barrier for her, leading to a bit of blushing on both their parts.

 

Both were initially silent, unsure as to what to say, until John broke in and said, “I’m sorry I...” and he pointed to his own face in the area where he had hit Sherlock.

 

“No problem,” Sherlock rumbled in his deep baritone. “I’ve had worse.” He lifted his hand to the back of his head. “Still have a bit of a headache, though. Thank God for the rug and the wood floor.”

 

John sighed gustily. “Sorry, sorry...God, I keep having to say I’m sorry for hitting you, Sherlock. It isn’t what I want to do, it just...explodes from inside me, you know?” Sherlock nodded sagely. “And then I’m left to pick up the pieces of my fucking temper...”

 

Both men’s eyes darted down to make sure Rosie was asleep. She was, out like a light.

 

“God, what kind of a man am I? What kind of a father? What kind of a friend...” he lamented.

 

“The best kind,” Sherlock replied, his voice soft, as he placed a hand over one of John’s. “I never realized the depth of pain inside of you, John. The fact that you have grown up to be such an incredible, amazing person is a testament to your strength, courage, and nobility.”

 

John laughed in a self-deprecatory manner. “’Nobility’. Nothing noble about it, Sherlock. I’m a survivor, that’s all. I’m too stupid to roll over and die.”

 

Sherlock’s long, delicate fingers curled around John’s hand loosely. “Untrue, and unfair to yourself. You did nothing to deserve any of the things that have happened to you. In fact, you have transcended them all.”

 

John’s sober eyes gazed up into Sherlock’s. “That’s what I’m afraid of, Sherlock. What if I haven’t? What if I...you know the old saying, that if you’ve been abused as a child, you either become an abuser yourself...”

 

“Or you break the mold and become a better person than your abuser. Yes, I am familiar with it. It’s one reason I always find out if clients have suffered any form of abuse in their early years. It can indicate a pattern, or break one,” Sherlock agreed, squeezing John’s hand. “You have broken the mold, John. There is nothing of the child abuser in you...”

 

“He also beat my mother, did you know that?” Sherlock shook his head, No. “That’s why she was so afraid of him. He busted up her face and clavicle one time and got a tap on the wrist for it. Nobody talked about domestic abuse back then. It was assumed that the woman or child had done something to deserve their punishment, so no one listened to the victims.”

 

Sherlock could feel a deep ache in his chest for this man. He had gone through so much abuse and rejection at the hands of his family and peers, and yet he had survived to become one of the finest men Sherlock had ever known. His respect for this small man grew with each new revelation.

 

“I mean, what if I haven’t escaped it, Sherlock?” John continued, his tone pleading. “What if I’m every bit the abuser my father was?”

 

Leaning in, Sherlock all-but-whispered, “Do you think I would have fallen in love with the man you describe, John? I may be a fool in some matters, but I know your heart, maybe better than even you do, and I am proud and honored to be your...friend,” he almost gagged on that last word.

 

Their eyes locked and open to each other’s scrutiny, John moved his free hand to Sherlock’s cheek, first touching the bandage he had placed there, then laying his palm flat against Sherlock’s cheek, their faces close, their breaths mingling…

 

“Kiss him, Daddy,” came a girlish voice from under the table.

 

Two heads swung around to behold a very sleepy Rosie watching them from heavily-lidded eyes. “Papa wants you to kiss him, Daddy. He told me so.”

 

“I did not,” Sherlock refuted her awkwardly. “I never said...”

 

“Sherlock,” John said, and Sherlock’s head turned back to face his best friend in all the world. “Shut up and kiss me.”

 

“Gladly,” Sherlock whispered as their lips met, soft and sweet and tasting a bit of basil and garlic. Rosie giggled and clapped her hands. Little known to anyone, Angelo was peeking out of the kitchen door, taking video with his phone, grinning like a loon.

 

“Are you dating now?” Rosie asked, yawning.

 

John laughed as Sherlock blushed. “Yeah, yeah, I think we’re dating now.

 

“Hooray!” she cheered sleepily before curling back up and falling asleep again.

 

“Sherlock, promise me something,” John said.

 

“Anything, John. You know that.”

 

“Please, keep me from becoming my father. Protect Rosie from me,” he pleaded. “Protect _yourself_ from me.”

 

Sherlock leaned in and kissed John on the forehead. “I won’t have to, John. You’re a better man than your know.”

 

Shaking his head, John stated, with certainty, “No, I’m not. I have lost my temper and hit you time and time again and you’ve always forgiven me. That has to stop.”

 

“Agreed.”

 

“And I can’t bear...one reason I leave Rosie’s care to you so much is that you...you wouldn’t abuse her the way my sister and I...”

 

“Stop. Stop right there,” Sherlock interrupted sternly. “I know you. You would not, _could_ not, do something so heinous to your daughter. You are afraid of your own anger, I know that, but you need to be open, with me and with yourself, about your past traumas and confront them, let them out into the light. Once that is done, they will hold less power over you. I will help you.” He smiled. “I think Rosie will, too, when she’s old enough to understand...”

 

“Understand what?” a sleepy voice slurred.

 

“ _Go back to sleep!_ ” both men said in unison. As she settled back down, Sherlock continued. “I will not allow you to become your father. You haven’t yet, and I don’t believe you will, but I will protect Rosie with my life, do you understand?”

 

John nodded somberly. “And don’t allow yourself to become the battered spouse, you hear?” He touched Sherlock’s cheek again, tenderly. “You...are the world to me. You and Rosie. Save yourselves from me, because I don’t deserve either one of you.”

 

Sherlock smiled softly. “Liar. You deserve everything good in life, and I’m here to make sure you get it.”

 

“Can we go home now?” came a cranky voice.

 

The two men smiled at each other. “Yes, I think we can,” John replied as Sherlock gestured for the bill.

Angelo bustled out, refused to charge them for the meal, and even produced a warm, wet cloth to wipe off Rosie’s chocolate-covered face and robe.

 

“Do you want to get a cab, Sherlock? I think it might rain, and you’re carrying Rosie,” John suggested as they exited the restaurant.

 

“No, it’s not that far, and she’s not that heavy,” Sherlock stated with certainty. As they walked home, the sound of thunder could be heard in the distance. “Smells like rain coming, and soon.”

 

John sniffed and nodded. “Ozone. I’ve always like the smell of it. Fresh.”

 

Sherlock nodded as he walked, cuddling the unconscious child against his chest. She was drooling on his coat. He didn’t care.

 

Once home, the two men put Rosie to bed in her and John’s shared room. She rolled up in her covers and snuffled before settling. Each one bent down to kiss the little golden-haired girl. Then they descended the stairs quietly, careful to latch the gate at the top of the stairs.

 

Sherlock sank down into his chair and sighed, emotionally spent. John went to their meager bar and poured each one of them two fingers of good scotch whiskey, handing one to Sherlock before sitting down in the chair opposite him.

 

“Quite a night, hmm?” John observed, quite unnecessarily.

 

Sherlock sipped his drink. “More exhausting than some of our cases,” he agreed.

 

Their eyes met across the distance and John smiled behind his glass. Sherlock, on the other hand, lowered his and said, “I seem to recall being here once before. You had offered me a date, which never happened. Will this be a repeat, or…?”  


John’s smile faded. “No repeat, Sherlock. I...I want this, now. I was always so afraid that you’d...you’d find out and be repulsed...”

 

Sherlock looked away and replied, “The first time we met, I had just finished beating a corpse down in the morgue. How did you feel about that, when you found out?”

 

“Intrigued,” John admitted. “I’m not particularly squeamish...”

 

“And I’m not one for blaming the victim, so there you have it,” Sherlock finished for him. He sipped his scotch just as the rain began sheeting against the window. Lightning flashed, followed by a dull boom, indicating the storm was still quite a distance away. “Ah, our storm has arrived.”

 

“Glad we got in on time,” John noted. They both took another sip in silence as the rain tatted on the glass. John swirled his scotch in his glass and wondered aloud, “I wonder how much of my past os bound up in my drinking?”

 

“A great deal, I should think,” Sherlock replied. “Alcohol is a commonly-used sedative and pain-reliever for those with emotional issues.” He cocked his head to the side and noted, “Not that it is of any more use in numbing existential pain than drugs are, but at least you never became an all-out alcoholic.”

 

“No, that was my father,” John grumped. “Gave him the courage to be the abusive bastard he was and numbed any regrets he might have had afterwards.”

 

“Sociopath, sounds like.”

 

“Unlike you, you lying bastard,” John reprimanded him. “Telling me you were a ‘high-level sociopath’ for all those years...and I was stupid enough to believe you, in spite of every clue to the contrary!” He thumped down his glass in disgust.

 

Sherlock smiled. “You believed what I led you to believe. That was how I kept people away. Only thing is, after a while, I didn’t want to keep pushing you away, but, by then, it was too late. You had bought the story in its entirety. You would never believe I was a real human being under that facade, no matter what I did.” He sipped his drink before putting down. “So which one of us was the greater fool?”

 

Lightning struck a nearby structure and the roaring thunder shook the house. A moment later, there was a scream from the upstairs that galvanized both men into action. Sherlock, with his long legs, got to the stairs faster, but John was close behind, adrenaline driving him on. Sherlock jumped the gate at the top and ran to the room, while John had to take a moment to unfasten it before proceeding, muttering, “Who the hell is that gate supposed to be stopping, anyway?” He pelted after Sherlock and entered the room as Sherlock knelt beside the crying, screaming child in the bed by the window, his arms wrapped tightly around her slender form as he rocked and soothed her.

 

“What happened?” John demanded to know as he arrived.

 

“Lightning flash scared her. Too close, I think. Woke her up in a panic,” Sherlock replied in clipped tones as Rosie sobbed and tried to burrow into Sherlock’s chest. “She’ll calm in a few, but I think that, maybe, we should take her downstairs with us for a bit.”

 

“I agree,” John said as he helped Sherlock regain his feet and watched as he carried her down the steep stairs to the parlor. There, he sat down with the shivering bundle of child in his lap, stroking her hair and murmuring soft words to her, explaining how lightning and thunder work and how she should remember that the lightning she sees has already passed her and the thunder is just air filling the space where the lightning had been. She began to calm, gulping air as she sobbed. John got her a glass of water, which she sipped in between crying jags.

 

Before long, her breathing had quieted and she lay, tired and comforted, against Sherlock’s chest. John knelt in front of them, holding Rosie’s small hand in his, trying to tell her jokes to brighten her up. Sometimes they worked and she’d emit a tiny giggle, but other times she would just say, “Oh, Daddy, that’s silly” in an exhausted voice. Sherlock watched them both fondly.

 

“I think that, maybe, Rosie should sleep down here tonight,” Sherlock suggested.

 

John looked up at him, confused. “Why?”

 

Jerking his head toward the big front windows, Sherlock said, “Those windows can be frightening during a thunderstorm. My bedroom had blackout curtains and is more insulated from both light and sound. She might sleep better there.”

 

John nodded thoughtfully. “Sounds reasonable. What do you think, Rosie? Do you want to sleep with Papa tonight?”

 

She nodded mutely, then said,” and you, too, Daddy.”

 

John looked up at Sherlock with brows raised but met only an unreadable expression. “Well, what do you think, Sherlock? After all, it’s your bed...”

 

Clearing his throat, Sherlock said, “I believe there is enough room in my bed for all three of us, if it isn’t an inconvenience to you.” _Translation: if you want to, I’m game._

 

John smiled and agreed. “Okay, then, shall we off to bed? Rosie?”

 

She was too tired to notice. She just nodded and snuggled closer to Sherlock.

 

All three people headed toward the back bedroom. John made sure the curtains were all closed while Sherlock laid the little girl down in the center of his sprawling bed. When John turned around, Sherlock was already lying on the far side of the bed, shoes off but otherwise dressed. He pulled up the comforter, which was already covering Rosie like a cocoon.

 

“Come on, John,” he said, indicating the side of the bed nearest the loo. John approached and toed off his shoes before climbing in and covering up. Each man laid an arm across the sleeping child and snugged in close. She sighed and relaxed, even as the storm raged outside.

 

“Good night, Sherlock,” John whispered.

 

“Good night, John,” Sherlock replied.

 

“Good night, Rosie,” they both said.

 

A tiny, muffled voice from beneath the covers said, pointedly, “It’s _Fleur_!”


End file.
